Poetry. A first

I have a deep, fractured relationship with poetry,
When I take the leap, I get great sensations, totally
Then that breaks and I weep, as I’m reminded of Heaney.

Its not that Heaney is shit,
But the teeny sensations begin to lessen
when I remember those high school lessons
then all I can think is that I need to quit.

For crafting the perfect fiction story
And using all my known diction towards it
Were the limits of my kinship
with written script

Never have I been concerned with rhythm or rhyme
Or how a syllables are supposed to sound, each time
And when I read into the different schemes and meters
It almost overwhelms me and makes me teeter,
On the edge of not rhyming at all.

In truth, poems don’t need to rhyme,
It’s as often about delivery and rhythm,
As long as I add these line breaks,
At least I can pretend it’s a poem.

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Poetry. A first

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